Page:Poems, Volume 2, Coates, 1916.djvu/34

WHEN they are dead, we heap the laurels high
Above them where, indifferent, they lie:⁠We join their deeds to unaccustomed praise,⁠And crown with garlands of immortal bays
Whom, living, we but thought to crucify.

As mountains seem less glorious viewed too nigh,
So, often, do the great whom we decry⁠Gigantic loom to our astonished gaze—⁠⁠⁠When they are dead;